


Secrets Revealed

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-19
Updated: 2006-10-19
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:56:20
Rating: Teen & Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8695558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: "Sam frowns again when his fingers close around something unexpected. He pulls it out of the bag and stares at it-a big, heavy brown envelope, crinkled and stained. It's unsealed, and he peeks inside, frowning deeper when he sees that it holds sheafs of paper."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Secrets Revealed  
Author: Kali  
Rating: PG13  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: _Sam frowns again when his fingers close around something unexpected. He pulls it out of the bag and stares at it-a big, heavy brown envelope, crinkled and stained. It’s unsealed, and he peeks inside, frowning deeper when he sees that it holds sheafs of paper._  
Notes: Random ficlet because I love the idea of Dean writing to Sam during his Stanford years, but not sending them. Feedback is loved. And while I'm here, a quick pimp for [ ](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_smut/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_smut/)**spn_smut**.  
  
  
The low sound of Dean groaning filters through the room, mixing with dust motes and swirling in the air. Sam doesn’t bother telling him to be quiet, it’s not that kind of moaning; no, it’s the relieved, pleasure-filled moaning of finally being able to relax after too much time wired up. Sam knows Dean will be in the shower until the water runs cold, and also knows that he won’t bitch about that fact.  
  
He smiles wearily and flops down on one of the beds. His skin is tingling, his body thrumming with the knowledge that he can finally relax. Two days on the road, never sleeping, barely eating, just running running running, running away, never stopping. Until they had finally screeched to a halt, breathing down the knowledge that they were safe, they were okay. His hands itch for a weapon, a lingering need to be armed against a threat that was no longer threatening them.  
  
Sighing, Sam sits up and pulls his knife out of its sheath. Light glints on the edge, tracing the smooth lines of the blade and digging out the runes etched in the handle, worn almost completely away through years of use. His duffel bag is by his feet and he hauls it on to his lap, digging through clothes, books, boxes of ammo and all those random trinkets that he seems to just accumalate. But no whet stone.  
  
Sam frowns in annoyance, because if it’s not in his bag, it must’ve fallen out in the car and he really doesn’t want to go outside and hunt for it. He purses his lips and glances at Dean’s bag, sitting on the other bed all innocent like. He knows he shouldn’t, because Dean is really damned stubborn about Sam going through his things, but Dean’s in the shower, and he doesn’t want to go outside, and really, it’s an irrational thing to be so stubborn about.  
  
He glances at the bathroom door once before reaching out and snagging the bag. It holds pretty much the same things Sam’s does- clothes, ammo, and Dad’s journal. Sam hesitates when he finds it, fingers brushing over the soft cover, before he pushes it aside. He just wants a damned whet stone, that’s it; there’s time later to read Dad’s journal.  
  
Sam frowns again when his fingers close around something unexpected. He pulls it out of the bag and stares at it-a big, heavy brown envelope, crinkled and stained. It’s unsealed, and he peeks inside, frowning deeper when he sees that it holds sheafs of paper. Glancing at the bathroom door again, and knowing that if he’s caught there’ll be hell to pay, Sam reaches in and grabs a handful.  
  
A postcard slips from his hand and tumbles down to rest on the bag. It’s from Oregon, one of those silly little cards of nowhere towns that have some random field or street shown on the front. Sam puts the other letters down beside him and picks up the post card. He turns it around and immediately sees the address. _Stanford. Sam Winchester._  
  
His breath catches in his throat, and he almost can’t make himself read it. But the sight of Dean’s familiar scrawl, hovering just at the edge of his vision, is too much and he scans the words quickly.  
  
 _Hey Sammy! You’ll never guess what I just tangled with-,fucking zombie cows, dude! Some stupidass highschool brat thought it would be funny. I’ve got bruises all over me, man, and it is so not funny. You think I’m allowed to kill that punk kid just on principle? Later, dude._  
  
Sam’s hands are trembling, the words wavering before his eyes, and he lets the card fall, picking up a piece of paper from the pile beside him. It’s covered with writing, small and cramped as if Dean refused to use more than one sheet of paper.  
  
 _Hey, Sam. So, it’s been three days since you left. Dad hasn’t spoken more than ten words since. Can’t say I’m feeling all that chatty myself. I just want to know why Sam. Not why you left, I know that, you’ve always bitched about wanting a normal life and you’ve certainly got the brains to be some fancy lawyer or doctor or whatever it is you wanna do. I just want to know why you couldn’t tell me what you were doing. You had to have been planning it for months, and you had to have actually hidden it from me. That’s what I don’t get, dude. You could’ve told me. I mean, I would’ve yelled, sure, but you’re my brother. You could always tell me anything. I mean, you told me when you first had sex, when you got your first wet dream, your first blowjob, when you banished your first spirit and exorcised your first demon. You used to tell me everything. So why did you hide this from me? Why did you just suddenly announce one night that you started school next week? Do you have any idea how much that fucking hurt? It felt like someone ripped out my fucking heart, Sam, because you hid this from me and then you left me. You fucking left, dude. I did everything I could to make you happy, to make you not hate our life so much, but I guess it wasn’t fucking enough, huh? Because you still hated it, you still hated me and Dad, and you still fucking left._  
  
The words are heavy and thick towards the end, enough that Sam can tell Dean was really angry, and he felt something heavy and greasy coil in his stomach, making bile rise in his throat.  
  
He shuffles through the letters and notes and postcards, picking out random lines and piecing together the pattern. The postcards are mostly short and happy, Dean talking about his latest kill or latest fuck.  
  
 _I swear, Sam, no one under the age of 18 should be allowed to do magic.  
  
Twins, Sammy! Fucking Sweedish twins and let me tell you, they were into some freaky ass shit. I have GOT to come back to Iowa sometime.  
  
Why do people always lie to me? When I ask about their traumatising pasts, I’m not being mean, I just wanna know how to banish the fucking spirit killing off their relatives. Idiots.  
  
Okay, you know how people say blondes have more fun? They totally lie. It’s redheads all the way, man._  
  
The letters are different, though. They’re long, sometimes several pages, and Sam swears, he can feel Dean’s pain and anger and fear as he reads the words.  
  
 _I’m just scared for you, Sammy. I’ve always been there to protect you and now I’m not. You’re alone and I’m so fucking terrified that you’re gonna get yourself killed._  
  
Did you think it was funny, Sam? Was it all just some sort of fucking game? Just fuck with my mind and fuck with my heart and make me feel crap I never wanted, or expected, to feel, and then you leave. Just swept out and left me high and dry. Really fucking funny, Sam  
  
I miss you, Sammy. I can’t believe how much it fucking hurts not having you here. I keep wanting to ask you a question or touch your skin and I can’t because you’re not here and that just really really hurts.  
  
Sam only makes it through half the stack before he pushes them all to the floor and curls up on the bed. His stomach is full and heavy, his head aching with a steady, throbbing pain, and he can’t even remember how to think. All he can do is imagine Dean, sitting in an empty motel room or tucked away in the back of a roadside diner, scribbling down every thought and feeling he’d never dare voice. He sees him stare at the end product, carefully address it, and then tuck it away where no one will ever see it.  
  
He doesn’t hear the shower stop running, or the bathroom door creak open, but, absurdly, he does hear Dean’s little gasp. He opens his eyes, not sure when he closed them, and sees Dean standing at the foot of the bed, towel knotted around his hips, staring wide-eyed at the letters and cards littering the floor. Sam whimpers, a pitiful little sound that comes from nowhere, and it makes Dean’s focus snap to him. There’s so many things reflected in his eyes that Sam can’t even see them all, just pain and fear and anger and uncertainty and that’s it, Sam can’t handle any more.  
  
He’s moving before he can think about it, because thinking hurts right now and he hurts enough as it is. He just gets up and strides towards Dean. Dean doesn’t even blink when Sam wraps his hands around his biceps and pushes him back against the wall. For a second, when Sam attacks his mouth hard enough to draw blood, he doesn’t react. Sam can feel his heart pounding, can feel him shaking ever so slightly, but then something snaps and Dean is pushing up against him, fisting his hands in Sam’s hair and moaning into his mouth.  
  
They break apart, blood coating their lips and breath coming in quick, heavy gasps. Dean stares at him, and if Sam didn’t know better, he’d swear there were tears in his brother’s eyes.  
  
“I never wanted you to see,” Dean whispers, voice scratchy and rough. Sam flinches, tightening his grip on Dean’s biceps.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers in return, meaning so many different things, the least of which is for going through Dean’s bag. Sam sighs and pulls Dean flush against him, wrapping his arms tight around his brother’s shoulders and trying not to think about how Dean lets him, just stands there and lets Sam hold him.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Sam repeats. Dean shivers and for a second, Sam thinks he can feel Dean’s arms around his waist, hugging him back, but then Dean is pulling away and going back into the bathroom.  
  
Sam takes a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling and trying to push away the heavy storm of emotion that lingered still. After a moment, he’s cleared his thoughts enough to turn around and carefully put all the letters and cards back in the envelope. He runs his fingers over the single word scrawled in faint pencil on the front, and then hides it away in Dean’s bag. His fingers brush against a familiar object and he pulls out the whet stone.  
  
Sitting on his bed, he picks up his knife and begins to slowly, carefully, sharpen the blade.


End file.
